Diplomat at Arms (18 page)

“I’ll murder ’em—!”

“Hold it, Georges. Look over there . . .”

A hundred yards away a trio of brown-cloaked horsemen topped
a rise, paused dramatically against the cloudless pale sky, then galloped down
the slope toward the car, rifles bobbing at their backs, cloaks billowing out
behind. Side by side they rode, through the brown-golden grain, cutting three
narrow swaths that ran in a straight sweep from the ridge to the air car where
Retief and the Chef d’Regime hovered, waiting.

Georges scrambled for the side of the car. “Just wait till I
get my hands on the son of a—”

Retief pulled him back. “Sit tight and look pleased, Georges.
Never give the opposition a hint of your true feelings. Pretend you’re a goat
lover—and hand me one of your cigars.”

The three horsemen pulled up in a churn of chaff and a
clatter of pebbles. Georges coughed, batting a hand at the settling dust.
Retief peeled the cigar unhurriedly, sniffed at it, thumbed it alight. He drew
at it, puffed out a cloud of smoke, and glanced casually at the trio of Aga
Kagan cavaliers.

“Peace be with you,” he intoned in accent-free Kagan. “May
your shadows never grow less.”

The
leader of the three, a hawk-faced man with a heavy beard, unlimbered his rifle,
fingered it, frowning ferociously.

“Have no fear,” Retief said, smiling graciously. “He who
comes as a guest enjoys perfect safety.”

A smooth-faced member of the threesome barked an oath,
leveled his rifle at Retief.

“Youth is the steed of folly,” Retief said. “Take care that
the beardless one does not disgrace his house.”

The leader whirled on the youth, snarled an order; he lowered
the rifle, muttering. Blackbeard turned back to Retief.

“Begone, interlopers,” he said. “You disturb the goats.”

“Provision is not taken to the house of the generous,” Retief
said. “May the creatures dine well ere they move on.”

“Hah! The goats of the Aga Kaga graze on the lands of the Aga
Kaga.” The leader edged his horse close, eyed Retief fiercely. “We welcome no
intruders on our lands.”

“To praise a man for what he does not possess is to make him
appear foolish,” Retief said. “These are the lands of the Boyars. But enough of
these pleasantries. We seek audience with your ruler.”

“You may address me as ‘Exalted One,’” the leader said. “Now
dismount from that steed of Shaitan—”

“It
is written, ‘If you need anything from a dog, call him ‘sir,’ ” Retief said. “I
must decline to impute canine ancestry to a guest. Now you may conduct me to
your headquarters.”

“Enough of your insolence—!” The bearded man cocked his
rifle. “I could blow your heads off—”

“The hen has feathers, but it does not fly,” Retief said. “We
have asked for escort. A slave must be beaten with a stick; for a free man, a
hint is enough.”

“You mock me, pale one. I warn you—”

“Only love makes me weep,” Retief said. “I laugh at hatred.”

“Get out of the car!”

Retief puffed at his cigar, eyed the Aga Kagan cheerfully.
The youth in the rear moved forward, teeth bared.

“Never give in to the fool, lest he say, ‘He fears me,’”
Retief said.

“I cannot restrain my men in the face of your insults,” the
bearded Aga Kagan roared. “These hens of mine have feathers—and talons as
well!”

“When God would destroy an ant, he gives him wings,” Retief
said. “Distress in misfortune is another misfortune.”

The bearded man’s face grew purple.

Retief dribbled the ash from his cigar over the side of the
car.

“Now, I think we’d better be getting on,” he said briskly.
“I’ve enjoyed our chat, but we do have business to attend to.”

The bearded leader laughed shortly. “Does the condemned man
beg for the axe?” he inquired rhetorically. “You shall be allowed audience with
the Aga Kaga, then. Move on—and make no attempt to escape, else my gun will
speak you a brief farewell.”

The horsemen glowered, then at a word from the leader, took
positions around the car. Georges started the vehicle forward, following the
leading rider. Retief leaned back and let out a long sigh.

“That was close,” he said. “I was about out of proverbs.”

“You sound as though you’d brought off a coup,” Georges said.
“From the expression on the whiskery one’s face, we’re in for trouble. What was
he saying?”

“Just a routine exchange of bluffs,” Retief said. “Now when
we get there, remember to make your flattery sound like insults and your
insults sound like flattery, and you’ll be all right.”

“These birds are armed—and they don’t like strangers,”
Georges said. “Maybe I should have boned up on their habits before I joined
this expedition.”

“Just stick to the plan. And remember: a handful of luck is
better than a camel-load of learning.”

The air car followed the escort down a long slope to a dry
river bed, across it, through a barren stretch of shifting sand, to a green
oasis, set with canopies.

The armed escort motioned the car to a halt before an immense
tent of glistening black, before which armed men lounged under a pennant
bearing a lion
couchant
in crimson on a field vert.

“Get
out,” Blackbeard ordered. The guards eyed the visitors, drawn sabers catching
sunlight. Retief and Georges stepped from the car onto rich rugs spread on the
grass, followed the ferocious gesture of the bearded man through the opening
into a perfumed interior of luminous shadows. A heavy odor of incense hung in
the air, and the strumming of stringed instruments laid a muted pattern of
sound behind the decorations of gold and blue, silver and green. At the far end
of the room, among a bevy of female slaves, a large and resplendently clad man
with blue-black hair and a clean-shaven chin popped a grape into his mouth,
wiped his fingers negligently on a wisp of silk offered by a hand-maiden,
belched loudly, and looked the callers over.

Blackbeard cleared his throat. “Down on your faces in the
presence of the Exalted One, the Aga Kaga, ruler of the East and West—”

“Sorry,” Retief said firmly. “My hay-fever, you know.”

The reclining giant waved a hand languidly.

“Never mind the formalities,” he said. “Approach.”

Retief
and Georges crossed the thick rugs. A cold draft blew toward them. The
reclining man sneezed violently, wiped his nose on another silken scarf, and
held up a hand.

“Night and the horses and the desert know me,” he said in
resonant tones. “Also the sword and the guest and paper and pen—” He paused,
wrinkled his nose, and sneezed again.

“Turn off that damned air-conditioner,” he snapped. He
settled himself, motioned the bearded man to him; the two exchanged muted
remarks. Then the bearded man stepped back, ducked his head, and withdrew to
the rear.

“Excellency,” Retief said, “I have the honor to present M.
Georges Duror, Chef d’Regime of the Planetary government—”

“Planetary government?” The Aga Kaga spat grape seeds on the
rug. “My men have observed a few squatters along the shore. If they’re in
distress, I’ll see about a distribution of goat-meat.”

“It
is the punishment of the envious to grieve at another’s plenty,” Retief said.
“No goat-meat will be required.”

“Ralph told me you talk like a page out of Mustapha ben
Abdallah Katib Jelebi,” the Aga Kaga said. “I know a few old sayings myself.
For example, ‘A Bedouin is only cheated once.’”

“We have no such intentions, Excellency,” Retief said. “Is it
not written, ‘Have no faith in the Prince whose minister cheats you’?”

“I’ve had some unhappy experiences with strangers,” the Aga
Kaga said. “It is written in the sands, ‘All strangers are kin.’ Still, he who
visits rarely is a welcome guest. Be seated.”

Hand-maidens brought cushions, giggled, and fled. Retief and
Georges settled themselves comfortably. The Aga Kaga eyed them in silence.

“We have come to bear tiding from Corps Diplomatique
Terrestrienne,” Retief said solemnly. A perfumed slave girl offered grapes.

“Modest ignorance is better than boastful knowledge,” the Aga
Kaga said. “What brings the CDT into the picture?”

“The essay of the drunkard will be read in the tavern,”
Retief said. “Whereas the words of kings . . .”

“Very well, I concede the point.” The Aga Kaga waved a hand
at the serving maids. “Depart, my dears. Attend me later. You too, Ralph. These
are mere diplomats: men of words, not deeds.”

The bearded man glared and departed. The girls hurried after
him.

“Now,” the Aga Kaga said. “Let’s drop the wisdom of the ages
and get down to the issues. Not that I don’t admire your repertoire of
platitudes. How do you remember them all?”

“Diplomats and other liars require good memories,” Retief
said. “But, as you point out, small wisdom to small minds. I’m here to effect a
settlement of certain differences between yourself and the planetary
authorities. I have here a Note, which I’m conveying on behalf of the Sector
Under-Secretary. With your permission, I’ll read it.”

“Go ahead.” The Aga Kaga kicked a couple of cushions onto the
floor, eased a bottle from under the couch, and reached for glasses.

“The
Under-Secretary for Sector Affairs presents his compliments to his Excellency
the Aga Kaga of the Aga Kaga, Primary Potentate, Hereditary Sheik, Emir of
the—”

“Yes, yes; skip the titles.”

Retief flipped over two pages.

“ . . . and with reference to the recent
relocation of persons under the jurisdiction of his Excellency, has the honor
to point out that the territories now under settlement comprise a portion of
that area, designated as Sub-sector Alpha, which, under terms of the Agreement
entered into by his Excellency’s predecessor, and as referenced in Sector
Ministry’s Notes numbers G-175846573957-b and X-7584-736 c-1, with particular
pertinence to that body designated in the Revised Galactic Catalogue, tenth
edition, as amended, Volume Nine, reel 43, as 54 Cygni Alpha, otherwise
referred to hereinafter as Flamme—”

“Come to the point,” the Aga Kaga cut in. “You’re here to
lodge a complaint that I’m invading territories to which someone else lays
claim, is that it?” He smiled broadly, offered dope-sticks, and lit one. “Well,
I’ve been expecting a call. After all, it’s what you gentlemen are paid for.
Cheers.”

“Your Excellency has a lucid way of putting things,” Retief
said.

“Call me Stanley,” the Aga Kaga said. “The other routine is
just to please some of the old fools—I mean the more conservative members of my
government. They’re still gnawing their beards and kicking themselves because
their ancestors dropped science in favor of alchemy and got themselves stranded
in a cultural dead-end. This charade is supposed to prove they were right all
along. However, I’ve no time to waste in neurotic compensations. I have places
to go and deeds to accomplish.”

“At first glance,” Retief said, “it looks as though the
places are already occupied and the deeds are illegal.”

The Aga Kaga guffawed. “For a diplomat, you speak plainly,
Retief. Have another drink.” He poured, eyeing Georges. “What of M. Duror? How
does he feel about it?”

Georges took a thoughtful swallow of whiskey. “Not bad,” he
said. “But not quite good enough to cover the odor of goats.”

The
Aga Kaga snorted. “I thought the goats were overdoing it a bit myself,” he
said. “Still, the greybeards insisted. And I need their support.”

“Also,” Georges said distinctly, “I think you’re soft. You
lie around letting women wait on you, while your betters are out doing an
honest day’s work.”

The
Aga Kaga looked startled. “Soft? I can tie a knot in an iron bar as thick as
your thumb.” He popped a grape into his mouth. “As for the rest, your pious
views as to the virtues of hard labor are as childish as my advisors’ faith in
the advantages of primitive plumbing. As for myself, I am a realist. If two
monkeys want the same banana, in the end one will have it, and the other will
cry morality. The days of my years are numbered, praise be to God. While they
last, I hope to eat well, hunt well, fight well, and take my share of pleasure.
I leave to others the arid satisfactions of self-denial and other perversions.”

“You
admit you’re here to grab our land then,” Georges said. “That’s the damndest
piece of bare-faced aggression—”

“Ah, ah.” The Aga Kaga held up a hand: “watch your
vocabulary, my dear sir. I’m sure that ‘justifiable yearnings for territorial
self-realization’ would be more appropriate to the situation. Or possibly
‘legitimate aspirations for self-determination of formerly exploited peoples’
might fit the case. Aggression is, by definition, an activity carried on only
by those who have inherited the mantle of ‘Colonial Imperialism.’”

“Imperialism! Why, you Aga Kagans have been the most
notorious planet-grabbers in Sector history, you—you—”

“Call me Stanley.” The Aga Kaga munched a grape. “I merely
face the realities of popular folk lore. Let’s be pragmatic; it’s a matter of
historical association. Some people can grab land and pass it off lightly as a
moral duty; others are dubbed imperialist merely for holding onto their own.
Unfair, you say. But that’s life, my friends. And I shall continue to take
every advantage of it.”